Warning
by The Hash Slinging Slasher-87-C
Summary: The following one-shot contains a horrendous amount of cheap comedy, cheap lemons, cheap writing and cheap cheapness. Read at the risk of having your IQ being dropped squarely to room temperature. Unnamed dude x puppet.


**Yeah, yeah. There's a lemon in this chapter. My first, ya know? Don't harp on it, alright? Just attempt to enjoy this messy one-shot I made between a nameless dude and the Puppet. FNaF 2.**

 **This story is entirely fictional, and is not related to the Five Night's at Freddy's story line. (This is an alternate universe, or A/U.) I do not own, in part or in whole, the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise. That belongs to Scott Cawthon.**

Fucked. I'm 100%, without a doubt, grade-A fucked.

Do not leave.

Do not pass go.

Do not collect $200.

I'm fucked.

Sweat fell off my face as the unappealing abyss of black stood before me, mocking my every thought and action. That unholy, evil, checker boarded hallway. The music box had run out, and the playful tune of my once cherished childhood song bounced on the mirrored walls, sadistically teasing my fate. I clenched my fists, gripped my torch, and waited for the sickly doll to float into my view.

Marionette.

Puppet.

Toy—I don't even fucking know anymore. It was coming.

I never bothered with the cameras; I just boarded up the vents and looked down the hallway. I mean, who would even build vents like that? The least they could do is put them higher so bloodthirsty animatronic farm animals couldn't climb in them and gut your intestines out for a macabre game of tug-of-war.

Grow a brain, Scott.

The tune concerning two mammals chasing each other finished, finally.

Wait.

Since when did monkeys wear socks?

Never mind that. There's more pressing matters than the lore of a children's nursery rhyme.

And there it was.

The doll.

Marionette.

Puppet.

Toy—for the sake of all that's holy, let's just call it Steven.

With outstretched arms, and mouth agape and pulled into a toothless smile, it floated towards me and out of the thick blanket of hallway shadow. Steven's picketed feet landed on the floor, arms aside, and began walking towards me. It started chuckling slowly, the once straight arms bent with elbows and wrists, climbing onto my desk. I never noticed the rack he had until now; well, I never noticed anything about it until now. I've never been less than forty feet away from it.

Wasn't Steven a kid's toy?

And wasn't Steven a boy?

For fuck's sake, keep your train of thought in line.

Steven's hands gingerly crawled their way towards me, expertly lifting and settling to avoid spilling the cans of unfinished Red Bull I had.

For some reason.

The hands made their way to my mask, gently lifting it to let my face into view. I somehow heard a gasp, hiss of air, change in barometric pressure, I don't know. It sounded like a gasp. And from the looks of Steven it was. He (or she, I don't give two fucks) put his (or her, I don't give two fucks) hand on his mouth, forming into a surprised look. Wasn't the face painted on? He backed away, small white iris's appearing and growing larger in his head. His eyes darted all over me, examining my figure. Finally, his eyes settled onto mine, locking and never moving. His frown grew into a smile once again, and he did the one thing that I never expected.

He spoke.

"I'm going to have lots of fun with you, mister" she said, apparently I gendered her wrong by the sound of her voice. I could go to jail for that, you know. Fuck, now I got to make a new name for her. Stevette? Sasha? Sashi? Sake? Sake. Sure. An Asian dipping sauce. Her name was Sake now. (sah-kee)

"What the hell do you want?" I retorted. "Just kill me already."

"Kill you? Goodness, no. I'm going to have _fun_ with you."

"The hell do you mean?"

"Oh, so naïve…" she said, putting her hand on my crotch.

What.

The.

Flying.

Fuck.

Instant replay, please?

 _"Oh, so naïve…" she said, putting her hand on my crotch._

Kill me now. On top of feminism, fidget spinners, , the 50 genders that exist, female Mr. Mimes and my S.A.T. scores, this is another reason for assisting my suicide. I'm not going to be raped by a Fisher Price toy.

Help me.

She grabbed my fly and ripped it down, tearing my jeans in half. I sent a fist toward her skull, but she grabbed it and pinned it to the wall, her left hand doing all the floor work. Sake took my manmeat and shoved it in her mouth.

She had one?

And it was wet, soft, and warm?

Well slap my ass and call me Susan.

Apparently this sad remake of Pinocchio was stronger than me, a man that lived on a liquid diet of beer, energy drinks, and soda.

Logic.

So I just sat there like a complete fucking idiot, taking this head she was giving me like, well, a man. What else would be getting head? Not the futas, dickgirls, and herms. They don't exist. But considering I'm getting blown by a puppet in a black jumpsuit, maybe that's not that farfetched. Hell, I thought this thing was a dude forty seconds ago.

I hardened up in her mouth, and she detached from it with a loud and wet pop. She jerked my cock off for a few seconds before hopping onto my office chair. Between her long legs, there was a snatch.

A wet, dripping, slick snatch.

I literally didn't want to give a fuck.

She hopped upside down, her pussy being shoved into my face.

"Lick" she said simply. I replied by shoving my tongue as deep as I could into her pussy, and she squirmed and moaned. I twirled it around, her back arching and her hands gripping the desk. I intended to make this nymphomaniac cum as soon as possible, even I didn't want this bitch riding me for the rest of the night.

Then again, who wanted to be fucked by a literal toy?

Let me rephrase that…

A crippled, creepy, slutty, sex-crazed, horny, fuckdoll.

Yeah, that doesn't begin to describe the girl—woman—THING forcing me to lick her snatch.

Speaking of which, she bit down on her finger as she came, her pussy running like a faucet. I let it all spill onto my chin and shirt, not wanting to drink it. She fell off the chair, eyes closing, snoring slightly. I sighed at my achievement. But I had more important problems to deal with right now.

The room smelled like sex.

An animatronic-toy-fuckdoll was passed out on the floor of my office.

And I had no pants.

Whoopee-fucking-doo.

I grabbed the nearest can of Air freshener and smashed the tip on the wall, spraying the shit everywhere. I picked up The toy—Steven—Sake—fuckdoll—WHAT THE FUCK IS EVEN LIFE ANYMORE?—and dragged it—her to her box. I also grabbed the can and left it spraying inside the box.

Now I needed pants.

I found a cactus needle stuck in my shoe and a loose thread off of my long sleeve and started to sew my jeans together. It was decent, though. I could wear it. But my girlfriend might be skeptical of her boyfriend coming home with half-ripped pants, no underwear, and the aroma of a woman's ejaculate on my mouth.

"Can't wait for when I get home…" I said as the clock rang for 6:00.

I walked outside to my car and noticed a bus parked next to it, with many bullet holes in the side. There was blood on the inside of the bus, and the smell of spinal fluid was all over the side of my car that faced the bus.

Goddammit Mrs. Frizzle.

I assumed that the rest of the—oh, god.

The animatronics can't be the spawn of Satan AND the antichrist?! Why did they have to gut forty kids in the middle of the night? Better question—why ere there forty kids inside a bus that parked next to a pizzeria that was clearly closed in the middle of the night with no bus driver?

Every day we stray farther and farther away from god's light.

I got in the car and turned it on, sputtering and turning over, and then I drove the fuck home.

I'm done with life.


End file.
